


allez les amis

by simplyirenic



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ensemble Cast, FIFA World Cup, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyirenic/pseuds/simplyirenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six weeks before the group stage of the World Cup, the French national team plays Patron-Minette in a charity friendly.  It all goes downhill from there.</p><p>---</p><p>Chapter 3: In which Enjolras and his lieutenants talk tactics, Grantaire makes a proposal, and our heroes' first opponents are briefly mentioned and summarily dismissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stadium from the Point of View of its Inhabitants

**Author's Note:**

> This started a while ago as a thoroughly self-indulgent and tongue-in-cheek fill on the kinkmeme where the prompt was basically "Les Amis are the French national team," and I wrote like a chapter and then proceeded to neglect it for...about a year, whoops.
> 
> For the record, I'm aware there's another football crossover on the meme, and I don't mean to step on any toes, particularly since it looks like we started writing about the same time! I think we're going in different directions anyway, so hopefully this town is big enough for the both of us. :)

Six weeks before the group stage of the World Cup, the French national team plays Patron-Minette in a charity friendly.

Matches in Paris generally attract a large crowd to begin with, but tonight the stadium is packed to the gills. After all, it’s Ultime Fauchelevent’s birthday, and the proceeds are going to one of his favorite charities. Usually any match involving Patron-Minette begins and ends with some truly spectacular brawling, but tonight the atmosphere in the stadium is surprisingly free of hostility, as if even the ultras are a little afraid of disappointing their beloved national coach. Club over country only really applies when M. Fauchelevent isn’t within earshot.

Still, the idea that even M. Fauchelevent’s presence would cause Patron-Minette to play fair for once is too much to hope for. 

Just before halftime Babet goes down screeching and rolling in exaggerated agony, to the vocal displeasure of the fans. Gillenormand is reffing tonight, and half the time he’s too busy ogling the female fans in the stands to pay much attention to the match. He awards Patron-Minette a free kick despite the indignant protestations of Enjolras, the national team captain, and vice-captain Combeferre gets a yellow card just for arguing.

Patron-Minette’s devastatingly handsome striker steps up to take the kick, and Pontmercy does his best, of course—he always does—but there’s a reason the team has always counted on the centerback duo of Joly and Bossuet to keep the penalty area clear. The ball spins neatly into the top left corner, and Pontmercy careens into the bottom right, barely managing to keep his face clear of the goalpost. 

The national team manages to even the score fourteen minutes after halftime. A flawless cross from Enjolras turns into a beautiful header courtesy of Bahorel, and the captain almost disappears for a moment in the enthusiastic bear hug that follows. But that, if anything, only seems to make their opponents angrier, and the match is two minutes from ending when the inevitable happens. 

It’s Claquesous who makes the tackle. It always is. He has a sixth sense for knowing exactly when a ref’s head is turned. The instant Enjolras accepts a pass from Feuilly, Brujon distracts the linesmen by trying to pick a fight with Bahorel, and by the time Prouvaire can drag him away and order is restored, Enjolras is a motionless heap on the ground. 

Gillenormand shows Claquesous the red card and awards a penalty, which Courfeyrac easily puts into the back of the net, but by then the damage is done.  Enjolras is taken off on a stretcher, and two minutes later, when the whistle is blown, the rest of the team abandons the pitch with a heavy heart. 

Later, footage taken by an enterprising fan will show that one of the substitute players had to be physically restrained from charging onto the pitch and tearing Claquesous apart. The video will wind up on YouTube and make its way to ontd_football, to the delight of many of the regulars. The player in question is eventually identified as Grantaire, a midfielder who achieved notoriety some years ago for getting drunk and taking the team bus on a joyride. One meme, ten gifs, and several touching music videos will be spawned as a direct result. 

This is irrelevant, because Enjolras doesn’t see any of it.

 

\---

 

Back in the locker room, the mood is grim. Prouvaire is pale and tight-lipped. Courfeyrac’s inexhaustible good humor seems to have fled. Bahorel spent the bulk of his rage on the pitch immediately after time was called, but his silence is somehow worse than his towering fury. Grantaire is on the floor, slouched against a bench, fingers reflexively crinkling a plastic water bottle. 

Pontmercy looks dazed, but he’s Pontmercy, so it’s entirely possible he’s just dreaming about the coach’s daughter like he usually is. 

It seems like hours before the door swings open, bringing with it the shouts of reporters and the sound of clicking cameras. Half the team leaps to their feet as Ultime Fauchelevent enters. 

“Well, coach?” demands Bahorel. “How is he?” 

M. Fauchelevent shakes his head. He looks exhausted. “It’s a hip flexor strain. One solid week of bed rest to start with, and no word on whether or not he’ll be well enough in time for the start of the tournament.” 

Silence as they process this information. A week of bed rest and then at least three of physical therapy, if experience is anything to go by. That’s cutting it closer than any of them would like. 

“When are you going to submit the final call-ups, coach?” asks Feuilly. 

“In a month,” says M. Fauchelevent quietly, and then, “I am afraid I can’t promise you anything. Dr. Necker said the tear was quite serious.” 

He pauses and looks at all of them, his expression solemn. They can read his thoughts as easily as if he’s spoken them aloud. There’s a very real possibility they may be going to the World Cup without their captain. 

The silence is broken by a crunching noise: Grantaire has crushed the water bottle entirely. 

“He’ll be fine,” says Courfeyrac. “He has to be.”

“A lot can go wrong in a month,” says Joly gloomily. “He could tear it again. He could develop a blood clot in his leg. He could get gangrene—” 

“In the meantime,” interrupts Combeferre, his voice calm but brooking no argument, “we carry on as usual. If you have vacations scheduled, take them. If worse comes to worst and we play without Enjolras, we’ll need to be at our best.” 

He surveys the the team expectantly. It takes a moment, but slowly, heads around the room begin to nod. 

“We’ll send him a fruit basket,” says Bossuet dryly, and the ensuing laughter is forced, but it’s a start. 

“Make sure there aren’t any pears,” adds Joly, his usual smile slowly beginning to peek through. “Last time Enjolras had a pear he developed a rash.” 

“That was sunburn, Joly—” begins Courfeyrac, but he’s interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. The team glances questioningly at M. Fauchelevent, but the coach only shrugs, mystified. 

Then a tall, grim-looking man in a long coat pushes his way past the crowd of photographers and into the room, and the expression of confusion on M. Fauchelevent’s face falls away.

“I’ll need to speak to you,” says the man to M. Fauchelevent. “In private.” 

“Of course,” says M. Fauchelevent. He looks strangely weary as he turns to the team. “Get some rest, gentlemen. I’ll keep all of you updated on how Enjolras is doing.”


	2. Marius Inquisitive, Fauchelevent Forewarned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marius makes a friend, and Fauchelevent has a pleasant conversation with the only official in FIFA who can't be bribed.

“Corinth?” says Combeferre as the team troops dutifully out of the locker room. 

“Corinth,” agrees Courfeyrac, and raises his voice just enough to be heard over the discontented muttering: “Corinth in ten, everyone!” 

“First round is on me,” adds Bahorel, and the reluctant nods turn into genuine smiles. Most of the national team plays for Musain FC here in Paris, and the bar down the street is their usual post-match haunt. Tonight, though,  there just might be a little more talking than drinking. 

Marius follows them as far as the door to the parking lot. Courfeyrac claps him on the shoulder on his way out the door, prompting a weak smile from Marius. 

“All right?” says Courfeyrac, and Marius nods. 

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says. “I, euh, forgot a thing.” 

Courfeyrac quirks an eyebrow, but he doesn’t press the matter, and Marius exhales slightly as the door swings shut after the midfielder. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t like the players from Musain FC, or that they don’t like him, and he knows they don’t blame him for the missed save or the fact that Gillenormand’s his grandfather. Les Amis, as the Musain contingent is called by their fans, are a lot of things, but petty isn’t one of them. All the same, talking to them is occasionally exhausting, and he still hasn’t quite learned where he fits in amongst the casual cameraderie that only comes with years of playing for the same club as well as country. 

Slowly he retraces his steps, coming to a stop in front of the locker room again. M. Fauchelevent’s ride ought to have arrived by now— 

“Waiting for Cosette?” says a voice. “She’s not here today, you know.” 

For a moment Marius forgets to breathe, terrified he’s been caught by M. Fauchelevent, but the low murmur of voices coming from down the hall doesn’t appear to have stopped. He spins around to face the speaker, but the hallway behind him is deserted except for a crumpled granola bar wrapper and a discarded water bottle. 

“Hello?” he ventures. 

“Saw you in goal today,” says the voice. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Could’ve told you Montparnasse would pick the top left corner. He always does.” 

“Who is this?” says Marius, frowning. He takes a step forward, as if that would do any good, but the hallway remains glaringly empty. 

There’s a grating laugh. “Call me a friend, if you like. I like the sound of that. ” 

The voice is low and rough, but it teeters on the edge of familiarity. He’s heard it before somewhere, he thinks. A practice? A press conference? 

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says, in lieu of something more clever. “Unless you have a pass—you’ll get into trouble—” 

“And wouldn’t M. Fauchelevent be delighted to find _you_ still here!” The voice sounds amused now, and Marius’s frown deepens. “Better get going, M’sieur Marius. I think they’re just about done talking.” 

“Do I know—” begins Marius, again, but then the voices on the other side of the door stop abruptly, and there are footsteps, and perhaps he’d better make himself scarce, after all.

 

\---

 

“I’ve been speaking to some of the other officials,” says the grim-faced man without preamble. He has drawn the national coach to a corner of the room near the passageway to the stadium proper, which even the most die-hard fans must have left by now. 

Fauchelevent almost smiles: a reluctant, slow upturn of one orner of his mouth, which fades before it’s properly begun. “I didn’t even know you were here, Javert.” 

“Where else would I be?” Javert’s tone of voice is, if not friendly, at least casual. Behind them, the subdued chatter of the team fades away as the players exit, leaving the room strangely quiet. 

Fauchelevent makes a helpless gesture. “It’s not important. Of course you’ve been speaking to the other officials. What about? If it’s Enjolras’s injury, I have every confidence that he’ll be fit by the group stage—” 

“Of course it isn’t about him,” interrupts Javert, before he checks himself: “No—it is. But not directly. Personally, I’ve every doubt your golden boy will be capable of making it to the round of sixteen, let alone the group stage, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s about Claquesous.” 

“Claquesous,” repeats Fauchelevent slowly. 

“More specifically,” says Javert, “Claquesous’s terribly convenient foul.” 

“I saw the replay,” says Fauchelevent. “Claquesous ran into Enjolras before he could stop. He came to me afterward to apologize and ask if it would affect his position on the squad.” 

“A convenient position,” says Javert. “Left midfield, isn’t he? The same as the esteemed M. Enjolras, as I recall.” 

At that, Fauchelevent draws himself up. “If you are implying, Javert, that Claquesous deliberately fouled Enjolras to secure himself a starting position on the national team—” 

“Good god! Have I only implied it, then?” Javert folds his arms and leans against the wall, expression darkly amused. “Very well, then—I am. Although I’d imagine it’s not the main reason.” 

“So what is?” 

“Ensuring that Les Amis stay out of the round of sixteen altogether.” 

Fauchelevent lets out a wary laugh, but the other man is not smiling now. “Come now, Javert. You’re not making any sense. What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying Claquesous fouled Enjolras on purpose, but only because someone told him to. Difficult to point fingers at this point, but my own money’s on Thénardier—” 

“ _Thénardier?_ ” Fauchelevent starts, confusion and anger beginning to show on his normally mild features. “Javert, he’s a French coach!” 

“As if that has ever stopped anyone,” says Javert flatly. “And if the scoundrel has a single patriotic bone anywhere in his body, I’ll eat my hat. Consider: Thénardier has money riding on the outcome of the World Cup. He knows Claquesous has been eyeing Enjolras’s spot in the roster since day one. Don’t give me that look, you know perfectly well he has been. And Claquesous is doesn’t mesh in the slightest with the rest of your lineup. But of course he doesn’t think so; of course a word in his ear would be enough to tip him over the edge. And everything that comes afterward—well, it’s self explanatory, isn’t it.” 

Fauchelevent exhales slowly and scrubs a weary hand across his eyes. “I find it difficult to believe the other officials would agree to your line of reasoning.” 

“They wouldn’t,” says Javert flatly. “Which, if anything, tells me I’m on the right track.” 

“It tells me you’re overthinking this,” says Fauchelevent, but he doesn’t argue the point. He’s clearly thinking it over himself. “Why come to me in the first place?” 

“To warn you,” says Javert. “Claquesous is a decent midfielder, despite everything. It may not be enough for Thénardier. I advise you to find a replacement, and fast, but whomever you sub in for Enjolras is ultimately none of my concern. Thénardier is. If you see anything out of the ordinary, tell me at once.” 

“You’re not seriously thinking of pursuing this,” says Fauchelevent. 

“Why oughtn’t I? I suspect foul play.” 

“You don’t have a shred of proof.” 

Javert looks exasperated. “Didn’t I just ask you to tell me if you saw anything untoward! I won’t act until I’m certain—you know me that well, I hope.”

“Alone?” 

“If I have to.” 

“That’s very like you.” 

“Yes,” says Javert, and there are no traces of amusement in his voice now. “It is.” 

Fauchelevent doesn’t look at the other man for a long moment. “You’ve made quite the reputation for yourself,” he says softly. “They say you’re the only man in FIFA who won’t take a bribe.” 

“Yes,” says Javert. He fixes Fauchelevent with a stare. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Valjean.” 

“Javert—” 

The other man straightens suddenly, his expression suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ve said my piece. You know how to reach me if anything happens.” 

“Javert, please,” begins Fauchelevent, raising a hand, but the other man is already out the door.


	3. Enjolras in the Presence of a Difficulty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras and his lieutenants talk tactics, Grantaire makes a proposal, and our heroes' first opponents are briefly mentioned and summarily dismissed.

“I don’t know how we’re going to manage it without our captain.”

Grantaire’s gaze swings from the bus window to the dark-haired girl sitting two rows ahead of him. She’s slumped low in in her seat, one leg sprawled inelegantly out into the aisle.

The girl beside her shrugs and grins. “You say that like we stood a chance at taking the trophy beforehand.”

“Stood more of a chance than we do now.” The first girl slumps further down. “Without Enjolras, our midfield totally falls apart. And we don’t have anyone to replace him.”

“There’s Claquesous,” offers the second girl.

“Inconsistent as hell, and never where you need him. It’s like half the time he doesn’t actually exist.” The first girl scowls. “Besides, the tabloids are tearing him apart for what he did to Enjolras. The public will forgive Leblanc for a lot of things, but calling up Claquesous? I don’t think so.”

“You know the tabloids call Enjolras _L’Ange_?” says her friend, and the first girl laughs.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a team as fond of nicknames as this one is. What are the others—Leblanc is the coach, I know that one, but Bossuet, for Lesgles? Where did that even come from?”

“It’s a pun,” says the second girl. “Someone on the team’s a huge nerd. Maybe even several someones. See, Lesgles used to play for Meaux, so…”

Grantaire looks away.

She’s right, of course. Not about the nerd thing—well, maybe about the nerd thing. But she’s right about Enjolras. Combeferre or Courfeyrac will make a good captain in the interim, but it’s just not the same unless all three of them are on the pitch. And without anyone to fill his position in the midfield…well, it doesn’t bear thinking about, that’s all.

Suddenly the bus is stifling and Grantaire can’t push the stop button fast enough. He stands to leave as the bus pulls over in front of the Hôtel-Dieu, and he hears the first girl say, “Wait a minute, is that—?”

But the doors hiss shut on her words, and he quickly ducks around the corner and out of sight.

 

\---

 

“Combeferre will be captaining the match against England,” Courfeyrac announces as he drops the fruit basket on Enjolras’s bedside table, “and I refuse to listen to any arguments to the contrary.”

“That’s in Fauchelevent’s hands, and you know it,” says Combeferre, shutting the door behind them on a few curious nurses.

“Well, he’ll give you the armband if he has any sense.” Courfeyrac slides into a chair and kicks his heels up. “Which he does, so that’s the end of that. Hello, Enjolras.”

Enjolras can feel the corners of his eyes crinkling in the beginnings of a smile. “My fruit basket looks a little empty,” he says after a moment.

“Well, you know how it is; there were pears, and I know you don’t care for them, so we gave them away.”

“How’s the leg?” adds Combeferre, taking a seat.

And just like that, the urge to smile vanishes. “A week of bed rest, not counting yesterday,” Enjolras says woodenly, “and four of physical therapy.”

“Coach said three weeks of PT,” says Courfeyrac, frowning.

Enjolras purses his lips. “They’re saying four now.”

“But callups—” begins Courfeyrac.

“—are in a month, I know. Dr. Necker said I might be fit to play by training camp, but he wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Fauchelevent will listen to him,” says Combeferre, and leans forward in his chair. “Have you given any thought to who’s taking your place?”

“Not Claquesous, of course.” Courfeyrac snorts. “Wasn’t Bossuet a midfielder, back in the day?”

Combeferre shakes his head. “He’ll likely keep our defense the same. Joly and Bossuet are as reliable as ever; there’s no need to change a winning combination.”

“And Pontmercy?” prompts Enjolras. “Is he part of that winning combination?”

Courfeyrac doesn’t miss a beat. “Pontmercy always comes through for us when it really matters. You know that.”

“His heart is in the right place, even if his arms aren’t always,” Combeferre concedes dryly. “And at least we aren’t the only ones in our group with problems.”

“England,” says Courfeyrac. “Match number one. Right. You think they’ll find a replacement striker in time?”

Enjolras makes a noncommittal sound. “Let’s hope they don’t.”

“Their squad has impressive depth,” says Combeferre, pulling up the roster on his phone. “They’ve got three up-and-coming strikers to choose from. Any one of them could pose a threat to our defense.”

Courfeyrac leans over Combeferre’s shoulder. “Or they could move Blakeney up from midfield.”

“Blakeney’s the new captain, isn’t he?” says Enjolras. “I don’t think they’ll move him out of position when he already has that responsibility to deal with. What do you have on him?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “I don’t know much; I don’t think anyone does. The English tabloids say he’s a spineless idiot who doesn’t deserve the armband, but then I expect the English tabloids say that about just about everyone. At the very least, I can’t fault his sense of fashion.”

Enjolras frowns. The total lack of information on their opponents isn’t ideal, but then nothing about this situation is. At least the rest of the Amis are in good shape, and the impressive collection of yellow cards Bahorel and Bossuet amassed during qualifiers will be gone by the group stage.

They don’t need him to win. He’s certain of that. Between Combeferre’s eye for off-pitch strategy and Courfeyrac’s unerring instinct for on-pitch tactics, the team’s in good hands. Still, the thought that he might not be able to lift the trophy with them, after all this time, is unexpectedly crushing.

“Fauchelevent’s coming by later today to discuss the callups,” he says at last. “I’ll talk it over with him and see what he thinks.”

 

\---

 

But when the door swings open again half an hour later, it isn’t the coach who hesitates in the doorway, looking slightly uncertain.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, surprised. For a moment his face is open, unguarded; he looks seventeen instead of twenty-two. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Well,” says Grantaire. “I didn’t either.”

He makes as if to step inside and hesitates again, thinking better of it: this was probably a bad idea, after all. But Enjolras nods, once, and Grantaire takes it for permission, sliding awkwardly into one of the two folding chairs already set up beside the bed. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, probably; Enjolras may run the team democratically, but there’s no denying who knows him best.

“Just passing by,” says Grantaire, with unconvincing carelessness. “Thought I’d drop in and see how you were doing, what with callups happening soon and all.”

“You’ll make the cut,” says Enjolras automatically.

Grantaire dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand. It ought to be aggravating, he thinks; does Enjolras think so little of him, that he’d visit him in hospital just to ask if he was still on the squad? And yet he finds himself oddly reassured instead, as if some part of him was doubting there had been room for him all the same.

“I didn’t come for that,” he says aloud. Enjolras straightens in his bed a little, giving him his full attention in that way he has always found warming and a little terrifying. “Joly and Bossuet were asking after you. They want to know if you’ll be joining us at training camp.”

“Not for the first week at least,” says Enjolras. “I’ll try to be there by the second, if Fauchelevent still wants me on the squad.”

Grantaire snorts. “Of course he will. Why shouldn’t he?”

“I realize this may have escaped your notice,” says Enjolras, “but I have a torn hip flexor and as things stand I have no business being upright, let alone playing on the world stage. I’m not so attached to my position I can’t consider how the team would fare.”

“But Fauchelevent won’t call up Claquesous to replace you. He’d be mad.”

“He’ll have to. There’s nobody else who can sub in.”

Which is when the idea occurs to him. It’s a stupid one—irresponsible, and poorly thought out, like every other idea he’s ever had in his life. But what the hell? They haven’t got anything else to lose, and this time—maybe, this time, it just might work.

“That’s true,” says Grantaire. “But you’re forgetting someone.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“You!” says Enjolras, and his surprise is more annoying than it ought to be. “You’re a second string right-back.”

“I used to be a midfielder,” says Grantaire, undeterred. “A damn good one.”

“Yes, back when you were in the youth league,” says Enjolras.

“That wasn’t so long ago. And you don’t need another right-back, you need another midfielder.”

“If Fauchelevent subs you in for me, you’ll be playing out of position.”

“I remember how to work a midfield well enough. You said it yourself: Fauchelevent doesn’t need me where I am, he has Prouvaire for that. I can supplement Courfeyrac’s playmaking; I can watch Combeferre’s back; I can run any forward off his feet and tiki-taka with the best of them.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not. Give me a chance,” says Grantaire. “I know I can do it.”

Silence. Enjolras regards him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then, “I’ll think about it,” he says, and Grantaire breaks into a slow smile.

 

\---

 

“You’re sure about this?” asks Fauchelevent later: not skeptical, not surprised, simply intent and thoughtful in the way only Fauchelevent can be.

“Not entirely, no,” says Enjolras. “But he is.”


End file.
